


human seraphim

by fernic



Series: the alertness of time (or, from their youth) [1]
Category: Vicious - V. E. Schwab, Villains Series - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral Sex, surprisingly poetic narration for a lowkey sociopath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fernic/pseuds/fernic
Summary: Before the thesis, before the experiments, and sometime between the shared dinner with Angie and the soon-to-be severed relation with said woman, there was Victor, Eli, and a very fine bottle of wine.Autumn of 2001, twelve years ago. A far simpler time.





	human seraphim

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written in seven days time, during which i lived in America, traveled to Sweden, then to London, and then came back to Sweden. it is also the quickest thing i’ve ever written and by far the filthiest. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: i did not tag this as dub-con because i did not think it needed that warning, but now i realize it may. both victor and eli are drunk when they give their consent, but i didn’t _write_ them as if they were drunk (very unrealistic, i know). but given that like four out of the five nsfw fics there are in this fandom are literal non-con, i figured this was way different and could not be compared. but bottom line is **yes, they are drunk when they give consent, but neither one has alterior motives prior, Victor is just a conniving little shit when he is intoxicated and happens to favor taking out his stresses by seducing people.**
> 
> takes place in 2001 because the book was published in 2013, which means ten years ago was 2003, and since this takes place their sophomore year of college in the very beginning half of the second semester, that means that this is the tail-end of 2001.
> 
> (as of july 20, 2018, this fic has been cleared of major html/spelling/grammar mistakes. enjoy the polished copy!)

Victor Vale is not drunk.

That is the first thing one should know. The second this is that, while yes, he may have just vomited in the street and spit some bile onto the toe of Eli’s shoe, that was only because the bastard deserved it. Sort of.

(Is showing up to a party looking like a downright undeniably attractive douchebag a good enough reason to vomit on said douchebag’s shoe? Victor’s slightly muddled mind says yes, yes it is.)

“God,” Eli groans, hand on Victor’s back despite his disgust. Victor does not understand what the big deal is. They’re pre-med students, for fucks sake. He tries to relay this to Eli, but all that comes out is a gurgle, and another splash of bile splats onto the sun-bleached concrete.

Once again: Victor is not drunk. He is nowhere near drunk. He is tipsy, and yes, there is a difference— a drunk would collapse and vomit all over the sidewalk with a groan; a tipsy student would remain standing while doing the same.

“Not God,” Victor corrects as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Eli lazily shoves at his shoulder, and the sound that drops from Victor’s mouth is a mix between a laugh and a pained groan.

“Ayyyy Eli!” yells some brown-noser who lives across from them in their hall. Frederick, Victor thinks he’s called, or some otherwise obsequious name Victor can’t be bothered to remember without bringing on a headache. From where he is, hunched over his knees pathetically against a smoke-stained alley wall ornate with graffiti, he feels Eli nod over his shoulder. Just the idea of acknowledging the idiot makes Victor want to vomit all over again. He gags and Eli pulls him up, catching him in some weird half-embrace, one hand under Victor’s armpit and the other spanned across the expanse of his back. Victor’s nose knocks against Eli’s jaw.

“C’mon, Vic,” Eli says then— though Victor feels the words more than he hears them, hard edge of Eli’s jaw moving up and down with the sharpness of his words, right against his cheekbone— and just like that, Victor is traipsing through the side alleys of town, trodding his feet through puddles and kicking the stubs of cindering cigarette butts into the loose cuffs of Eli’s trousers, being led by the very man who dragged him out of their room in the first place. 

Victor wants to be mad. God, how he starves for that heat in his gut, that absolute twist in his stomach, the crescent indents bruised into his palms from fists drawn too tight. But he can’t find it within him to have even a mere whim of something close to being mad. The air is thick with the smell of car exhaust and cigarette smoke and the gray milk fog that hovers in the sky, clinging to the brick of the old buildings, and through all of that, the moonlight filters through, and it meets Victor’s blurry vision and reflects upon Eli like he’s a goddamn angel, some wicked, beautiful thing sent to accompany Victor on a walk that seems to be through hell itself.

Victor stumbles over an upturned stone in the road, and Eli catches him with a hand enclosed around his elbow.

“Let’s get you home.”

*

Home, in and of itself, is a rather hellish place to be when one is under the influence. Though he and Eli have only lived together for a semester and a half, their school-issued apartment is inexplicably _their's_ , from the leaking bathroom tap to the minuscule crack the runs along the south-ward wall. The entire expense of the decor is a mixture of them both, mazes constructed of textbooks and overdue library books infringing on the corner full of entangled electronic wires and broken earbuds and phone chargers, couch quilts and pillows dropped haphazardly on the floor, half full coffee mugs used for tea and milk and orange juice alike teetering over the edge of the coffee table, one nudge away from shattering ceramic all over the millennium-aged floor. The whole damn apartment is set up like a trap, and Victor swears as he stubs his toe into a stack of hearty textbooks that either he or Eli or some wicked ghost has left towering in the center of their living room, balancing himself only on the shitty Ikea coat rack that threatens to snap in half with one more hat.

“Jesus, Vic,” Eli mumbles, nudging him not-so-gently to the couch, where he flops facedown with an unceremonious groan. Victor takes a whiff of their cushions, unwashed and unturned for god knows how long— probably since longer than Victor’s life, going by the stench— and wrinkles his nose, and when he finally manages to twist his neck to peer up at Eli over the newspapers and open laptops and stacked lab sheets  
that reside on their coffee table, it’s with a look of great disdain and misery. Eli’s smile is only somewhat sympathetic. “You really can’t hold your liquor.”

Somewhere, hidden deep beneath his alcohol-laden limbs and nausea-ridden stomach, ambition stirs, the very barest of himself plowing clear through his mind, and Victor is thinking as coherently as he can manage in order to intake Eli’s sparkling eyes and downplayed smirk and honeyed tone as teasing; he is also knowledgeable enough to know that no matter how drunk ( _tipsy_ , he corrects himself) he may be, he will always, always fight to win. This is especially true when the matter comes to Eli.

They have a bottle of wine hidden under Victor’s old record player, tucked away behind the rack of original ACDC vinyl and the occasional jazz ensemble recording, where no one— not even the nosy RA—would think to check for fear of Victor unleashing a violent wrath upon them. It was swiped from one of the many house parties Eli attended, pulled out of Victor’s messenger bag with a sort of light effectiveness and cause, and, when revealed to Victor later that night, Victor’s mind had been _reeling_ , flipping between thoughts like _how the hell did the asshole slip that into my bag without me noticing_ and _I wonder how vintage that is_ and _never in my life have I been more sexually confused_. Since being stuffed behind the records, it had been conveniently kept secret and almost, _almost_ forgotten.

Until, apparently, tonight.

Victor gets up with only a slight struggle, toes slipping between the cracks in the cushions and nails scratching along the floor when he lands hard on one knee on the ground. “What are you doing?” Eli asks, only to be promptly ignored. Victor somehow makes it over to his record player, passing by the pieces of him and Eli that are spilled all over the floor, spreading spreading spreading and consuming consuming consuming. 

He pulls the bottle out with a victorious _aha!_ , the momentum of his pull to get it unstuck enough to roll him onto his back. He feels the echoing creaks of the century-old wooden panels that make up their floor as Eli comes to stand over him, eyebrow raised and bottom lip drew between his teeth. Victor beams.

“Don’t just stare,” he drawls, lifting the bottle up with a slightly trembling hand. “Get yourself a glass.”

And so here they are: Victor and Eli, Eli and Victor— the same, no matter how it’s spelled out, spilled across the floor or thrown into the sky— stretching their legs along the expanse of their small living room floor, backs against the wall, television program muted beside them. Five sips in, Victor had stumbled to set a record on the turntable, and now the needle jumps faintly over the scratch in the viny, something only there due to his irresponsible clumsiness during move-in day. The same sax line plays over and over in some twisted melody. Eli’s face twists into a drunken grimace when the record stops short only to start again to the same spot eight measures before.

“Can’t you fix it?” he asks Victor.

“I could,” Victor answers. “If, of course, I could stand. I swear, my legs have turned into jello.”

The bottle between them had since been capped and rolled to some far corner of the room, destined to be tripped over in the morning or perhaps dug out from under the couch on another late Friday night— unbeknownst to Victor. Last Victor had seen it, there was only perhaps a glass-worth of the deep red left, droplets clinging to the tinted glass, pooling at the bottom like tree sap. He had studied it carefully before passing the bottle back to Eli, pads of his fingers pinching the neck of the bottle, knuckles brushing the knock of Eli’s thumb clumsily. Apparently, Eli had decided for the both of them that they’d had enough, because Victor only realizes now, staring at the waving floor between his legs, that the bottle has disappeared.

“I told you,” Eli muses lightly, shoulder knocking into Victor’s. “You can’t hold your liquor.”

Ah. So that’s what this was. Victor remembers now: competition firing up his veins, the need to prove Eli wrong overcoming the competing need to go take a nap in the tub. Whatever the case, Eli was right. Victor really is a lightweight. But Eli doesn’t have to know that. “So you’ve been trying to get me drunk, Eliot?”

Eli’s eyebrow raises at the sound of his full name dropping from Victor’s mouth. “Not at all. Just proving you wrong. I told you when we got home that you were drunk, and you went off and got yourself even drunker. Like a true alcohol-induced twenty-one year old.”

“Like you’re not drunk yourself,” Victor mumbles, slowly bending forward to get on his hands and knees. Eli was right about something else, too— the repeating sax solo, while certainly pleasant at first, has gotten repetitive and boring after being listened to a hundred times over.

Somehow, he manages to crawl over to the record player. With a flick of his fingers, he pushes the needle off of the scratch, and then off of the record entirely, deciding he’s heard enough of the Chicago Jazz seasonal of ‘96. When he turns around, trousers scuffing on the floor and one sock almost folding off of his foot entirely, Eli is there, much too close and much, much too gentle looking.

(Victor doesn’t like it. He has an appreciation for the hard things in life, the tough, gritty things. But now, here, sitting with his knees folded beneath him, eyes slightly lidded and mouth parted open in drunk confusion, Victor can’t deny that there’s something deep inside him— very, _very_ deep— that loves the gentleness of things a bit too much, especially when the manner of gentleness belongs to Eli.)

“Not drunk,” Eli corrects, echoing Victor’s own thoughts he had hours earlier. “Just tipsy.” His breath fans across Victor’s nose.

If Victor wasn’t currently feeling like throwing up all over their living room floor (though no matter how much he feels the urge to, he would never— they had just gotten a new rug last week and he rather likes it clean and spotless as it is) he might laugh, but he _is_ feeling _exactly_ that, and so all that leaves his lips is a small lurching sound before his elbows suddenly collapse underneath him and he faceplants to the floor.

In front of him, Eli muffles a snort. Victor flips him off, nose still twitching against the wood.

“Alright, then,” Eli sighs, collecting himself as he gets up to his feet. Through thin strands of blonde hair grown a tad too long, Victor watches Eli’s sock-clad feet come before him, and he barely has time to get a hold of his stomach ( _don’t throw up don’t throw up don’t throw up_ ) before he’s being pulled to stand on his feet like a toddling child. For the one-too-many-th time this night, Victor finds himself far too close to Eli, enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, the lingering cologne he dabbed under his jaw, even the aftershave he must have used that morning. Victor breathes in deep and feels something stir. An idea, an urge— both.

“I’m going to be honest,” Victor says as he stumbles past Eli to the hall, “I think I might die of alcohol poisoning before the night is through.”

“Technically, the night is already through,” Eli says as he follows. “It’s nearing two.”

“Oh, how wonderful.” Victor’s shoulder collides with the jamb of Eli’s door, and he stumbles inside. Behind him, Eli stops. “Class tomorrow is going to be _wonderful._ ”

Quietly, Eli says, “This is my room.”

“Oh, you’re quite the genius, aren’t you?”

“Why’re you coming into _my room_?”

“Relax. I don’t put out on the first date. Unless, of course…” 

“Vic.”

Victor turns around. 

Eli is staring at him, and Victor has never seen anything more unabashedly beautiful. Because Eli has always been handsome and charming and yes, definitely a nice spot for sore eyes, but he has never been this _alluring_ , especially to Victor. Because now, the barest of Eli’s self is here, laid down for Victor to see, that dark light in his eyes unbound, crossing over confusion, pooling out. And Victor wants to grab hold of it before Eli reels it back in.

So he takes a stumbling step forward. His hand, lithe and pale and trembling, rests on Eli’s chest. “Relax, Cardale,” he says. At Eli’s wrinkled nose, he corrects himself. “Eli. There’s nothing wrong with two blokes sharing a bed for the night.”

“Eugh. Are you British now?”

“No,” Victor muses, voice now hinting at a British accent. “Though I can be if you want me to be.”

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Eli snorts. “That was horrible.”

“I think I’m rather good at accents.”

“Hmm,” Eli hums. His hand encloses over Victor’s wrist. “You’re quite drunk, you know.”

“Yes,” Victor agrees. He turns them around, and Eli lets him, steps back as Victor steps forward until the back of Eli’s calves are pressing against the bed, and the school-issued mattress depresses under the weight of him sitting down on it.

“And so am I,” Eli adds, looking up as Victor still stands, albeit shakily, before him.

“Once again, yes.”

“So when we wake up, we can just blame the alcohol.”  
The words are soft, barely audible. As if Eli is simply voicing a thought he had to himself. 

At that, Victor grins. “Now you’re getting it.”

Eli offers him a quivering smile, and then Victor nudges him over, and they sit side by side. It is quiet, and then Victor turns to look at Eli, at the shape of his face, the straight slope of his nose. He blows a thin stream of air against Eli’s cheek, and when Eli looks over, Victor’s whole face tingles with heat and curiosity and anticipation. Eli licks his lips. Those perfect lips. The exact ones he nibbles on whenever he thinks too hard or prays. The exact ones he sucks in between his teeth whenever he is frustrated. The exact ones Victor wants nothing more than to feel against his skin.

(The last thought is somewhat of a shock.)

“I’ve never done anything with a boy before,” Eli whispers finally.

Victor can’t help but grin. “Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. Neither have I.”

“Really?”

“Well, kind of.”

“ _Kind_ of?”

Victor shrugs. “Kissing doesn’t count. No matter how handsy it gets.”

_“Handsy?”_

“For fucks sake, Eli, you’re not a parrot. Yes, I’ve kissed a guy— engaged in homosexual behavior before, however you want to call it. No, I didn’t shove my hands down his pants. I was _close_ , mind you. He kept talking about humanities, and you know how discussing the great poets just _does_ something to me—“

“Oh my god,” Eli says slowly, voice hitched. “Oh my god.”

“Speaking of _doing_ something,” Victor continues, “do you want to?”

Eli frowns. “Want to what?”

“Have a cup of tea,” Victor deadpans. Eli is still frowning, eyebrows drew down in slight confusion, and Victor finally sighs. “You idiot. Do you want to kiss me?”

There’s a window in Eli’s room that, ever since they moved in, he has never been able to completely shut. At first, it was an inconvenience to them both, since no matter how much they cranked the heat up, every particle of warmth seemed to slip right between the cracked, weather-worn wooden pane and the equally rotting sill. Now, Eli simple stuffs towels and rags in the gap on particularly cold nights, as if that really changes anything. But tonight, it’s only a soft breeze that ripples through the air, and as it enters the room and cards through Eli’s hair and causes goosebumps to rise on Victor’s arms, he can’t help but be grateful the damn thing never closes.

Because when Eli leans in and whispers, “Yes”, a breath away from Victor’s mouth, he _shivers_ , fucking _trembles_ in front of him, and it may be from the cold air, but it could also be from Victor, and regardless of the cause, Victor’s heart jumps and something dark pulls at his stomach at the sight. 

It’s Eli who seizes Victor’s head with two hands cupped around the back of his neck and yanks him forward. Their lips bump clumsily. Victor has kissed people— has been kissed by people— many times before, so it isn’t like this is exactly new. But this is Eli, young and vulnerable beneath his fingers, slow from the drinks just like Victor, that usual sharpness, that usually guard, lowered, if only for a split instance. Eli presses like he has everything to lose, like Victor is something he can only taste once. Their teeth click and Victor starts to pull away but Eli groans and keeps him there, tilts his head and shudders when Victor’s mouth opens underneath him. Victor can’t help but think that this kiss is so different from any that came before, and it will forever stand out from those that come after.

Because it’s not under the harsh light of a gritty club, or surrounded by the stuffy air of a basement as an empty beer bottle knocks between knees; it’s not surrounded by people anywhere or awkward on a front doorstep. It’s in a room, a cool room, with the autumn breeze lifting the curtain, moonlight spilling onto the floor and illuminating books and clothes and trinkets all dropped and nudged aside with drunken toes and it’s on a bed that creaks and it’s with a boy who smiles and charms and hides something under his skin, something too dark to ever be shown to the light.

It’s with _Eli_ , and somehow, despite how much Victor doesn’t want it to, that means something.

Carefully, like one would cradle a bird, Victor runs his fingers along Eli’s neck and then sharply pulls away. He makes his eye flutter open ever so slowly, licks his lips and finally meets Eli’s eye and is sure to hold his gaze, is sure not to let his mouth curl into a smirk when he sees how soft Eli’s eyes have become, not to show any knowledge of the fact that Victor knows he _has_ him.

He has him, and now he needs to make sure he keeps him.

“Well, that was fun,” Victor says suddenly, pushing Eli away as quickly as he pulled him in. He gets up to his feet, only just managing not to sway from the imbalance of the motion. “I think I might pass out.”

Eli slowly blinks up at him. “What?”

“Pass out. Another way to say 'faint'.”

“No, I mean— _What?_ You’re _leaving?”_

Victor turns his back to Eli to hide his grin. “You said so yourself. We likely won’t remember any of this in the morning. I’d rather not wake up in the middle of the night on your floor, or cold from you stealing the covers. You just _look_ like a sheet hog, Eli.”

“I’m not,” Eli snaps. “And you’re leaving? You just kissed me.”

Victor frowns. “I did? I don’t recall.”

“We just—“

“No, Eli,” Victor interrupts. “ _You_ just. You’re the one who pulled me in, who didn’t let me go.”

“No—“

“Yes,” Victor interrupts. He keeps his voice calm, slow. “You said you’ve never done anything with a boy. I said I had. You kissed me. You obviously wanted to try.”

Eli frowns. “Well, I thought— I believed that we’d do _more_ than just kiss.”

Victor raises a pale eyebrow. “So first you’re appalled at the thought of me getting handsy with some guy at a bar, and now you’re asking to get handsy with me? You really are selfish, you know.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Eli says.

Victor steps forward again tips Eli’s chin up, eyebrows turning down, eyes narrowing. “You can’t _play_ with me, Cardale,” Victor says. “I’m not something to work your hypothesis out on. If you want to know what it’s like, then fine, I’ll assist you. But you _won’t_ be the one in control. Everything you do to me will be because I _told_ you to do it, and everything I do for _you_ will be because I’m tired of seeing you squirm.”

Eli’s lungs exhale all his air as Victor talks. Victor is so close now that he can taste his breath, can see the hint of the wine still staining his tongue and lips when Eli says, ever so softly, “Okay. Yes, alright.” Victor grins. Already, something in his gut is tingling. Anticipation, maybe. He might even go as far as to call this excitement. His eyes flicker down to Eli’s lap and he smirks.

“Oh, talking _does_ something to you now, doesn’t it?”

Even in the fading light, the almost pitch-blackness of the room, Victor can see Eli flush. “No, that’s not it—“

“Oh, shut up,” Victor says, and then he kisses him.

It’s hard and it’s hot, wet and vicious, and everything Eli gives to him, Victor gives back tenfold. He forces Eli’s mouth open, presses his tongue to the flat of Eli’s palette, bites his lip and tastes blood when Eli moans beneath him. Feels satisfaction curl inside his bones at the hitched breath of surprise that cuts through the air.

Victor raises a knee to press it into the edge of the mattress between Eli’s legs. Eli’s neck is cranes up at an angle that must be uncomfortable, and given the choked off gasps and gargled sounds and the way his throat jumps beneath the runnings of Victor’s fingers, it is. Eli’s hands twist and clench in his lap, 

Victor pulls away. Eli draws in a shaky breath. Victor grazes his teeth along the edge of Eli’s jaw. A wolf, mapping the bite to slay the sheep. “Are you going to sit back down, now?” Eli asks.

Victor bites his neck. “I like looking down at you for once.”

Victor feels the way Eli’s pulse jumps, the way the muscles in his shoulders and arms tense and then, slowly, release. “Oh,” he croaks, and then again, “ _oh_ ”, as Victor reaches down and skims the edges of his fingers along Eli’s lower stomach, teasing the edge of his shirt.

If there is one thing Victor knows how to do, it is how to get what he wants. He is stubborn, has always had a bit of devil in him, that scheming side he has kept tucked away in his back pocket, no chance for it to truly be pulled out and unfolded. But now, he lets it come out just a little bit. He notes Eli’s every reaction, every sound and drunken groan. Yes, Victor is drunk. Wasted. But he has always been a logical thinker through and through, and if anything, alcohol has only seemed to make him more desperate to do this right, to draw Eli in so that Eli will never want to let go.

Victor wants to control. And by doing this— by kissing Eli breathless, by pressing his fingers into the button of Eli’s jeans, by pulling away with a hunger and ferocity in his lidded eyes— Eli seems to want nothing more than to give it to him.

And then Victor leans in and whispers into his ear: “I want you to suck me off.”

Eli freezes. It’s expected. Victor continues to kiss his neck, his jaw, slowly peels away from him until he’s kneeling on the edge of the bed, toes grazing the floor. He rests a hand on Eli’s thigh, fingertips rubbing softly over his crotch. 

“What you do for me, I can just as easily do for you,” he assures, voice honeyed. “And I promise I can make it very, very good.”

Eli swallows. “I’ve never—“

“That’s fine,” Victor assures. “And you know what, I’ll even go first.”

Eli’s grunt isn’t so much of a yes as much as it is a long, drawn-out hiss of several stringed profanities, meshing together into a gasp when Victor makes quick work of Eli’s buckle and belt. He tosses it to a far corner of the room that isn’t that far at all, and it ricochets and clangs against Victor’s heels. He presses feather-light kisses to Eli’s stomach, rucks his shirt up and palms him through his pants. 

“Just from kissing, and you already look like this,” he observes dryly, slipping a hand into Eli’s jeans and then after that his boxers. “I reckon this will be over quickly, then?” Eli decidedly doesn’t answer. Victor doesn’t mind; he does, after all, love the sound of his own voice filling up the stuffy room. Almost lazily, he pushes Eli’s knees farther apart. “A shame,” he says. “But maybe you have a short refractory time.”

Eli lifts his hips slightly and allows Victor to pull down his jeans to his ankles. He doesn’t waste any time; Victor has always had a special hatred for the hesitant. As soon as he can manage to, he leans forward and mouths at Eli’s cock through the soft fabric of his boxers. They smell like fabric softener. Victor doesn’t know whether to find that charming or odd.

Above him, the string of profanities— now decorated with the names of holy figures and angels and saints etc etc— continue. Victor can’t help but feel a sudden flare of pride. He hasn’t even started yet, and Eli is already unwinding between his hands and his teeth.

Victor palms him through the damp fabric. Eli’s cock is hard and trapped under the waistband of his boxers, and so Victor frees it, licks his lips and glances up at Eli and holds in that giddy feeling when he finds Eli is already watching him with eyes open wide. If Victor were to be honest, he does think Eli looks slightly terrified at the sight of Victor down on his knees, but the feeling is definitely brought on by Eli’s own obvious inexperience and the fact that, being the perfect Jesus-loving Christian youth that he is, Eli is most likely thinking of one hundred excuses to give to God during his morning prayers tomorrow.

The thought of Eli, getting on his knees and undoubtedly being reminded of Victor doing the very same for an entirely different reason brings a giant grin to Victor’s face.

“How do you want me?” Victor asks suddenly. “Do you want me to be slow, or rather thorough? Or would you rather force my head down and use me?”

The question makes Eli whine, a high keen from the back of his throat. “How do you say things like that?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Easy,” Victor says, lapping at the head of Eli’s cock. “I open my mouth, the words come out. But really—“ he wraps his whole mouth around the head and sucks gently before pulling off— “how do you want this to go?”

“I don’t— You said—“

“Because when it’s my turn,” Victor notes, almost to himself, “you’re gonna sit there and _take_ it. I might not even let you breathe.” 

All the air leaves Eli’s lungs in a sharp exhale, and Victor uses the opportunity to take Eli into his mouth again, to sink down halfway and slowly come back up, tongue pressing up hard against the underside of his length.

“No response?” Victor asks. Eli looks like he’s incapable of accurately wording any of his thoughts, and he just sits there, mouth gaping like a fish. Victor frowns and reaches up, gently pressing on his chin to close his mouth. “Just watch then, okay? That’s all I want you to do.”

And Eli nods. And Victor gets to work.

The best part is that Victor feels Eli watching him, knows he has all of his attention and focus. Eli’s thighs tremble when Victor twists his tongue around the head of his cock when he licks across the slit and tastes the bitterness that leaks there, when he can’t hold back a moan when Eli’s hips accidentally jerk, forcing his cock farther into Victor’s mouth. With ease, Victor lifts and places one of Eli’s legs over his shoulder, leaving him vulnerable and unbalanced, and then, with the cockhead still flush on his tongue, Victor gently nudges Eli so he partially laying down. Eli abides, lower back hitting the mattress. He turns his face towards the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut, and Victor pinches him hard on the stomach.

“Watch me,” he says, though it isn’t much saying as it os ordering, and Eli doesn’t even reply. Just sniffs and raises himself up on his elbows, watching with glazed eyes as Victor sinks down again. Eli’s flushed and panting, belly trembling from where his shirt has been rucked up. Victor breathes through his nose and goes down, doesn’t gag as he lays his palm flat on Eli’s stomach just to feel the muscles flutter under him. Eli’s thigh twitches from where it’s pressed against Victor’s ear.

“You’ve done this before,” Eli hisses suddenly between grit teeth.

Victor grins with his mouth around Eli’s cock, something hard to do but worth all the effort when he sees Eli’s eyebrows twitch from their narrows position and his cheeks puff out. He pulls up and kisses up and down Eli’s cock. “What gave it away?”

“You said you— _ah_ — hadn’t. You lied.”

“Eli,” Victor drawls, licking a slow line up Eli’s cock, from the base all the way to the swollen tip. “I stretched the truth. I really _didn’t_ get handsy with that humanities boy.”

“I don’t care,” Eli fumes, words breaking off with a choke as Victor sinks down on him once again, “about the fucking humanities boy.”

Victor pulls off again with a wet pop. It doesn’t sound half as glorious as they make it sound in porn. “Speaking of humanities—“

“I will not,” spits Eli, “quote Ginsberg or Thomas while you suck my cock.”

Victor pouts and reaches up to flick Eli’s nipple. “You’re really no fun at all.”

_“Vic.”_

“‘Alcohol, cock, and endless balls,’” Victor quotes, closing his eyes as he gently noses Eli’s lower abdomen. “Looks like Allen enjoyed a night, not unlike the one we’re having now.” He tweaks Eli’s nipple again and runs his tongue all the way up Eli’s cock before closing the head in his mouth and sucking. He knows Eli isn’t going to last much longer. It’s written all over him, how he fights to close his eyes and how he pants empty words into the air and how his fists clench his sheets and how over Victor’s shoulder, his toes curl and his leg shakes. Eli is being absolutely ravaged, and the best part is that Victor isn’t even trying that hard.

So he pulls off, works Eli with his hand as he takes a deep breath, and _tries._

Eli’s cock is a flawless fit for Victor’s mouth. The skin is downy on his tongue, and the whole act of sucking Eli down and leaving him an incoherent mess brings goosebumps to Victor’s skin and making his spine shiver. While one hand still lays splayed across Eli’s chest, the other kneads into his upper thigh, the one still spread flat and hanging off of the bed. Victor’s thumb reaches down and gently grazes Eli’s balls, and the sharp gasp of “Please,” that jumps from Eli’s lips is enough for Victor to actually moan around Eli’s cock.

“Please,” Eli says again. “I think I’m— _Victor.”_

Victor glances up and sees ’s Eli has squeezed his eyes shut, and he pinches him again. Eli doesn’t even yelp, just opens his eyes and bites his lip and watches as Victor lifts up and makes a show of having Eli’s head on his tongue, slowly licking up and keeping it on the warm flat of his tongue, so close to his open mouth but not yet allowing him in, and just like that, just from the _sight_ of him, Eli whimpers and comes.

There is a period of silence. Eli takes one look at Victor’s face, tongue pooling with sticky white, teardrops of the stuff on his cheekbones, nose, some even clumping in an eyebrow, and flops down on his back with an embarrassed whimper. Victor, with Eli’s cockhead still shuddering on his tongue, swallows, relishing in how oversensitivity has Eli’s thigh twitch and squeeze on his shoulder. He pulls away, gently eases Eli’s leg down again, and with one last soft kiss to Eli’s cock, pulls his boxers back up and wipes his face on Eli’s shirt, biting along the sliver of Eli’s stomach from where it’s exposed under the hem of it. A hand comes to rest in his fair hair.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Victor murmurs into Eli’s bellybutton. “Unless you’re gonna pull a dick move and make me finish myself off in the bathroom.”

Eli doesn’t say anything, just continues to run his hand through Victor’s hair until Victor pulls away and stands. Eli sits up.

“I’m not going to force you,” Victor clarifies. “If you really don’t want to, I’ll leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Eli says quickly. He stares at Victor’s trousers (the exact same pair he yelled at Victor for wearing to the party. _It’s a fucking frat house_ , he had grumbled. _Who are you trying to impress?_ Victor only replied, _Impressing isn’t the point. And my legs look damn good in these pants._ ) and at the bulge that, if Victor is going to be honest, has started to die down with this giant pause in the action.

Still, he isn’t a monster, and he does know that this whole thing will definitely be more fun if Eli is as enthusiastic as he is, so he waits while Eli collects his thoughts. His eyebrows pinch the skin above his nose, and almost absentmindedly, his fingers worry a small scalp on his knee. Finally, he says, “I just… I really haven’t done anything.”

Victor snorts. “That’s what you’re worried about? Eli, I don’t _care_.”

“Okay,” Eli says. “But can you… do it?”

Victor snorts. “Do what? You want me to shove my cock down your throat _for_ you?”

He means it as a joke. It is _so_ obviously a _joke_. But Eli gulps and presses his lips into a fine white line and Victor comes to the giddy realization that Eli _likes_ it when he takes control, and isn’t this a fine, wonderful November night?

“Oh, I see,” Victor says, because now he does. He pops the button lose from his trousers, watches with hungry eyes as Eli stares at his crotch with careful focus. “Don’t worry,” he hums, reaching down to cup Eli’s cheek. “I’ll tell you exactly what I like.”

Eli nods, and Victor shoves down his trousers and boxer briefs. Eli leans in, to lick at the base or mouth around the head or something else, but Victor grabs a hold of him by tightening a fist in his hair. Eli’s head is wretched up and his mouth opens in a sharp gasp, and Victor stares at him as he touches himself, strokes himself gently with a loose hand, being sure to bump the edges of his knuckles against Eli’s lips every few seconds.

“Say you want it,” Victor tells him. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I—“ Eli stops himself like the very words are stuck in his throat.

“You don’t even have to say please,” Victor presses, leaning a bit down. “Just tell me you want it. Say you want it bad.”

“Jesus,” Eli whimpers. And then, softly, “I want it.”

Victor grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. _Yes_. Victor, _c’mon._ ”

“Then take it,” Victor says, and then he presses the tip of his cock to Eli’s lips, and Eli opens right up. And the best part is that, when he sinks about halfway down his throat, it’s not because Victor forced his head down. It’s because he wants to. Clearly, lack of experience does not equal lack of will, because Eli seems to be already pouring everything he has into giving Victor the best damn head he’s ever received— though, if Victor were to be quite honest, it has less to do with the technique Eli is trying to implement and more to do with the fact that it’s Eli himself who’s giving it to him.

He’s sloppy, that’s for sure, and his eyes flicker up to Victor— he reads them in an instant, that slightly confused and aggravated glance, that _Well, what’re you waiting for?_ gaze. Victor sighs and smooths his hands through Eli’s hair and says, “Just like that.”

That, apparently, is enough. Eli licks back up and does to Victor what Victor did to him with a clumsy mouth, and when Eli takes him in so far he chokes, Victor yanks him back with a fist tight in his hair. “God, you’re starved for it. You greedy thing.” The words drop from his mouth as easily as water dripping from the tap, slurred but slow. Eli merely blinks, and Victor smears the flushed head of his cock across his parted mouth. Eli’s eyes squeeze shut, and if he looks like if he had to option to pull away, he would, but Victor holds his head where it is. “Slowly,” he instructs, and Eli listens.

He’s enveloped in the heat of Eli’s mouth, and it is nothing like before, anticipation wiring nerves that made Eli try to swallow the whole thing down right away. Now, Victor leads, keeps his fingers threaded through Eli’s hair and reels him in, makes him do exactly what Victor likes.

“Gently, now,” Victor instructs, pressing only the head of his cock into Eli’s lips. “You know, for someone who brags about being good at everything, you’re rather shit at sucking d— _Shit_ , Eli, watch the _teeth—“_

Eli pulls away and presses the flat of his tongue against the slit of Victor’s cock, flicking lightly. “You talk too much,” he says, eyes trained on the flat plane of Victor’s stomach. 

“Oh, but you love it,” Victor croons, tucking a strand of hair behind Eli’s ear. “ _Look_ at you. You’re _hard. Again.”_

Indeed, Eli is beginning to become aroused. His hands are twitching in his lap, trying to hide or otherwise adjust the growing bulge in his boxers, but he cannot hide what is so painfully obvious, laid out for Victor to see. Perhaps if they had left a light on in the kitchen, he’d be able to describe the exact color of the flush on Eli’s cheeks or the number of wrinkles he creates in the sheets under his clenched fist, but he cannot. Still, what he has is enough— more than, certainly— and Victor watches with a smirk as the different emotions crossover Eli’s face, embarrassment, and persistence and for a split second, he sees true fear. Fear of what he’s doing, or of what he’ll remember tomorrow— if he’ll remember anything at all— or perhaps, maybe, fear that Victor is right. That he truly is enjoying it as much as he seems to.

(And certainly, it seems to be that he’s enjoying quite a bit.)

“Don’t worry,” Victor tells him, voice soft, if only the slightest bit condescending. “I won’t tell anyone. Besides, I don’t think anyone would believe me. Your perfect-Christian image is still intact.”

“That’s not—“ Eli begins, but then he closes his mouth. For the better, Victor thinks, because already, he’s beginning to flag.

“May we continue?” he asks.

Eli swallows. Nods.

“Perfect,” Victor says, fingers skimming down to Eli’s pulse, pressing just enough to feel exactly how fast his heart has begun to race. “Now, deep breath, and open up.”

Victor leads himself into Eli’s waiting mouth with a deep, satisfied sigh. Muddled as his mind may be, he knows he will never forget this feeling, the sheer satisfaction of being in control, of taking over Eli completely, in the barest essence. He tells Eli what to do, where to flick his tongue, when to sink down as far as he can, how fast or slow to bob his head. He speaks into the open air, cards his fingers through Eli’s hair, and once in a while he holds him down, feels the tension spike in Eli’s body, relishes in the tight squeeze of his throat around his cock— _all_ of it surrounded by the wet warmth— and grunts at the pleasurable thought of Eli feeling him throb in his throat, so far in that his voice will no doubt be hoarse tomorrow.

Victor feels the inexplicable urge to take Eli and absolutely ruin him.

“Oh, you love this,” he slurs at one point, thrusting shallowly as he’s situated himself deep in Eli’s throat. Hands scramble at his hips, nails sliding down and digging into his thigh. Victor just presses himself deeper and rolls his hips, chuckles as Eli breathes in heavily through his nose. He feels Eli’s throat lurch and squeeze, and he sees the obvious tent in Eli’s boxers, the one sure-hard (ha) piece of evidence that, no matter how Eli will care to deny it— to himself or Victor otherwise— he is aroused by this, by Victor talking or by the feeling of cock in his mouth or by Victor himself or by all three. “Look at you. You’re practically leaking. All from sucking my cock.”

Eli’s fingers press deeper into his thighs. Victor pulls away and, curiously and for his own experiment, busies himself by combing his fingers through Eli’s hair, rather than leading him around. Eli comes off of his length with fluttering eyes and, much to Victor’s (pleasant) surprise, kisses down the entirety of it— though it isn’t kissing so much as it is dragging hot lips down and up again, tongue darting out once or twice to lap at a protruding vein or perhaps just to taste the skin.

Eli likes this. That much, Victor knows. But Eli, perhaps, doesn’t know, can trick himself into thinking that it’s Victor who’s dragging his head up and down his cock, telling him to kiss every inch of it like he worships it. Which, really, is no good at all. Seeing the half-shame-half-arousal in Eli’s eyes when he understands that he likes doing this almost as much as he likes receiving it is something Victor would love to see.

When he nudges Eli up again, tugging at his hair in a way that is undoubtedly painful, he grins at the sight of Eli’s mouth falling open, waiting readily. When Victor doesn’t make an attempt to push his way back into Eli’s mouth to his throat, Eli’s eyes flicker up to Victor, confused and surprised. And—

“Oh.”

There. Victor laid his trap. And Eli fell in, as simple and as beautiful as that.

Lightly, Victor taps his fingers against Eli’s cheek. Then, he bends over and kisses him, hard and hot on the mouth. Their teeth click and Eli bites down on Victor’s tongue, but that’s what makes it _good_ , what makes Victor’s stomach squirm and his cock twitch.

“You’re eager for it, Eli,” Victor whispers against his lips. He presses the pad of his thumb into Eli’s mouth and watches with close fascination at how Eli’s tongue squirms around it, at his any of Eli’s questioning and protesting whines go against the instinct he has to invite it in, teeth dulling and mouth warming. “Now that you’ve had a taste, you’re absolutely _gagging_ for it.” Victor pulls his thumb out of Eli’s mouth and swipes it against his bottom lip. “And I’m going to give it to you.”

“God,” Eli mumbles against his mouth. “Fuck, _Victor_.”

“Right the second time,” Victor says, straightening up, pulling Eli’s hair back and away from his face. Eli’s eyes are squeezed shut, and when Victor shakes his head gently with a tut and says, “Open”, they slide open along with his mouth.

Victor grins. “Perfect,” he says, sliding home, cockhead hitting the back of Eli’s throat. “I think I’m going to fuck your mouth now,” he says, and Eli makes a sound, a low hum covering a gentle gurgle, and then Victor is doing exactly that, pulling back only to slide back in, fast and hard, relentlessly ravaging Eli’s mouth and throat over and over. He comes like that, Eli’s nose pressed flush against his abdomen, throat gagging and constricting around Victor’s spilling cock, milking it for all it’s worth.

“Good,” Victor says when Eli doesn’t scramble, doesn’t fight to pull away as soon as Victor’s finishes. He rocks gently in Eli’s mouth. That’s the point of it all, isn’t it? To show Eli that they’re only done when Victor is, and even then, Victor’s still in control. “You did well.”

Eli moans around Victor’s cock and Victor shudders, finally pulling away. He redresses himself, and although it feels a little weird to be standing in front of Eli— who is only in his wrinkled boxers and a tee shirt— in trousers and an unbuttoned oxford, Eli doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. Eli’s cheeks are puffed out a little, his lips squeezed tightly, and Victor hums and reaches for a tissue from the box that rests on the mini desk by his bed to hand to him.

“Spit it out if you want,” he says. Eli takes a tissue, but Victor sees his throat stubbornly work to swallow despite his obvious disgust.

“You’re fucked up, Vic,” he croaks. “And your mouth is filthy.”

“You obviously had a great time,” Victor muses, flopping down to lay beside Eli, shoulder pressed against the wall. He pats his lap. “Now come on,” he says when Eli stares at him. “I’ll finish you off. Again.”

Eli’s cheeks flush and he glances towards the open door like he’s actually considering getting up and leaving, but then Victor pats his thigh again, and Eli sits on his lap and hangs his head low as Victor reaches into his boxers and tosses him off, shudders and trembles and gasps our Victor’s name, thighs clenching around Victor’s hips, hands fisting his shirt and nose crushing into Victor’s neck with a moan when he comes again, all over Victor’s bare stomach and his own chest.

“I’m gonna pass out,” Eli slurs, slumped over as Victor grabs another tissue to clean himself. As soon as he tosses the napkin to the floor, he collapses like jelly, arms winding around Victor’s neck and cheek resting on his collarbone. He’s like a drunk, post-orgasmic armadillo. Victor relays this to him and smirks when Eli lazily hits his shoulder.

“Don’t sleep,” Victor says. “I’ve just had one of the best orgasms of my life, and I gave you _two_ of the best _you’ve_ ever had. I demand some pillow talk after all that exertion.”

“Fuck off,” Eli mumbles against his skin. “How’s that for pillow talk?”

Victor considers. “Not the worst I’ve ever experienced.”

Eli punches him again. “Just go to sleep, Victor Vale,” he finally says, rolling over to the other side of the bed, but since it’s a school-issued twin, it’s not another side so much as it is another edge. He’s still pressed close to Victor in almost every way, legs tangled and knees interlocking and arm slung over Victor’s middle, a mockery of a couples embrace. With Eli, it feels more like an awkward boy scouting trip, two boys shoved into a one person tent. Victor finds he doesn’t mind it at all on the slightest. The tip of Eli’s nose presses against Victor’s ear and his breath tickles the shadow the moon spills over Victor’s jaw. “After all, we have the rest of our whole lives to talk it out.”

Victor closes his eyes and pictures it: nights full of studying put on pause for glasses of stolen wine, lips stained plum wandering from mouths to ears to necks. There’ll be drunken stumbles from room to room, crashing into every furniture piece in sight, until Victor pushes Eli against the wall or door or window or counter and kisses him senseless, until shirts are peeled off and pants pushed down, until all they feel is the other, fingers digging into shoulders or thighs or back, toes curled and knuckles white and bodies soft and lithe beneath each other.

There is a certain type of poetry that describes nights like these. It’s the type of thing Victor knows will only come across once in a while, when Eli is truly bored or drunk or simply tired of getting off on his own. Victor will never be Eli’s first choice; that much is clear. But there is something beautiful about rare things, and especially true about things rare to a person; they only hold as much value as you let them, and even if they crack and burn, they’re still set in your head as what they once were.

Beside him, Eli sleeps. His fingers clutch the sheet that covers Victor’s body. It’s uncomfortable, falling asleep in nice clothes like this, and Victor knows he’ll have to hand them in to be dry cleaned— they’ll be wrinkled and crumpled and, going by how Eli sleeps, drooled upon— but he also knows that this fact doesn’t bother him as much as it ought to. Something about this— about the night, about how the bed sinks with the weight of two people, about Eli pressed as close as he is— rings strong and true, all the way down to his bones. He knows: he will always remember this.

“Yes,” Victor says to the waiting night. “Our whole lives.”

For tonight, at least, it’s a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Howl, an (utterly fantastic) Allen Ginsberg poem. The full stanza it is part of actually does hint at blowjobs. The second, more explicit title is “alcohol, cock, and endless balls”, which is another legitimate line in the same exact poem (it’s a very long poem and there were lots of homoerotic lines to choose from). I feel like Victor is a big fan of Ginsberg and probably owns a stolen, marked up library copy of a collection of his poems shoved under a car seat somewhere.


End file.
